


After He Leaves

by loves_books



Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Captivity, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Other, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 02:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: Time has little meaning any more. Not for two captured ex-Rangers, chained up with only irregular visits from their nameless and masked jailer to mark the passage of time.
Relationships: H.M. "Howling Mad" Murdock & Templeton "Faceman" Peck, Templeton "Faceman" Peck/John "Hannibal" Smith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	After He Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a WIP for many, many years, even going through several changes of fandom, and it's not getting any better than this, so I think it's time to either delete it or post it. I can't quite bring myself to delete it so here goes nothing...
> 
> Please read the tags, and please note that I'm not using archive warnings this time. If you're not sure, then please don't read on. If you do read on, then please don't hate me!

He leaves.

Murdock can’t tell if Face is awake or unconscious, though he desperately prays it’s the latter. It was a short but brutal visit from their captor this time, and the blood is still seeping from the fresh wounds on Face’s body.

The blood is vivid and bright. Too bright in this darkened and windowless basement which has become their entire world. It oozes slowly over Face’s paper-white skin, pooling on the table top before dripping off to add to the small puddle on the floor beneath, smeared from where their abductor has walked through it.

The scent, also, is far too strong. Copper predominantly, mixing sickeningly with the more rank odours from the twin buckets provided by their jailor. 

Murdock hopes with all his heart that Face isn’t awake. His best friend has earned a brief respite, surely, after the pain and suffering he’s been subjected to this time around. There has been far too much of that for Face over these last few days – three days, by Murdock’s best reckoning, though time has little meaning any more. Not for two captured ex-Rangers, chained up with only irregular visits from their nameless and masked jailer to mark the passage of time.

He wishes he could speak to Face right now, and if he could gnaw off his tight gag then he would. He’s tried, over and over again, only succeeding in making the corners of his mouth bleed. He has no idea what words of comfort he could possibly offer, but he would try. Without the gag, when Face is being tortured, Murdock alternates between pleading for their captor to stop, cursing him with everything he has, and begging Face to hold on. He tells Face over and over again that they’ll be found soon. Rescued. 

Their captor just smiles beneath the mask hiding most of his face, saying nothing at all.

Murdock wracks his brain trying to work out who this stranger could possibly be. Someone they’ve met, most likely, and perhaps even someone they’ve failed to help, taking their twisted revenge. But nothing seems familiar, neither the height nor the build. The masked man is easily Hannibal’s height, if not a fraction taller, and built like BA, his muscles bulging beneath black layers. Working muscles, too, hard-earned rather than simply gym-honed. 

No questions, no typical villainous monologue about his reasons. Face had suffered in stoic silence for the first few visits, then lapsed into name-rank-serial number, before finally giving in to screams that leave Murdock’s ears ringing and tears streaming down his cheeks.

Now, things are as bleak as they have been at any point since the two of them woke up here, with no memory whatsoever of their capture, and Face is still bleeding. Usually, their masked and silent captor is scrupulously careful to clean and bandage whatever wounds he has inflicted on Face’s bound and helpless body, and he has always loosened Murdock’s gag before he leaves the basement.

Not this time. All Murdock can do is watch silently, tugging impotently at his chains, and wait in dread for the next visit. He finds himself praying to a God he desperately hopes Face still believes in. 

Let it end soon.

* * *

He leaves.

There is water for both Murdock and Face, this time, though Face is making no attempt to drink and Murdock is growing increasingly frantic. 

“Come on, Facey, please,” he begs. “Take a few sips. You have to keep your strength up. Don’t give up. Don’t you dare give up.”

They are on opposite sides of the room, too far for any kind of contact, with each of them chained to their own little piece of wall. The empty table where Face is tortured over and over again stands ominously in the corner. No gags for either of them, but several new bruises and bandages for Face, who seems barely conscious as he lies curled on his side, staring blankly into space.

Sadly Murdock knows that this is far from the first time Face has been tortured in his military career, but Murdock is terrified that this time has broken his friend completely.

“They’ll be coming for us soon, Face. Hannibal’s coming, and BA too. You just have to hold on a little longer. Drink the damn water, Face, for me.”

Murdock sips slowly at his own water, unable to tear his eyes away from Face as he does so, resisting the urge to gulp it down while also trying to ignore the strangely metallic taste. He’s fairly sure it’s been spiked with something – the last time they were given anything to drink he’d felt as if he was suddenly flying as the filthy basement walls warped strangely around him. The patterns formed by Face’s blood had seemed the most perfect works of art, abstract and yet full of meaning. 

When he’d come back to himself and the reality of this hell they are trapped in, he’d felt physically sick, and not for the first time. But they have to stay alive until they are rescued, and to stay alive they need water, drugged or not.

Face is still making no move to drink his own portion, even though it has been carefully placed just within reach of his tightly cuffed hands. Face is making no moves at all, and hasn’t done for quite some time, and nothing Murdock says seems to penetrate his agonised misery.

“Listen to me, Face. I know you’re hurting but you can’t give up. You have to hold on and stay alive, and to do that you have to drink the water. Face? Look at me, Face, please? Come on. Please?”

Face can’t give up now. Murdock can’t let him give up. It’s been at least a week since they were taken. They’ll be found soon, surely. Hannibal and BA must be tearing the country apart to find them.

“Please, Face, drink something,” he murmurs again, his voice starting to sound alien even to his own ears. “For me. Don’t stop trying now.” Murdock pauses; Face just blinks tiredly at the wall. “They’re coming, and they’ll find us soon.”

But he simply can’t bring himself to say ‘I promise’ to the injured man. 

* * *

He leaves.

Face has been left on the table again this time, instead of being chained back on the floor. His bandages are clean and snugged tight over new wounds, with a patchwork of newly inflicted dark bruises layered over the older yellowing ones. Both his eyes are now swollen shut, his lip split deeply and his hair stained pinkish from where their cruel captor made a half-hearted attempt to wash away the blood.

“Face?” Murdock’s chains are tightened to the point where he can’t move more than an inch from the wall. No matter how much he twists and strains, practically dislocating his shoulder in the process, he just can’t get free. “Can you hear me, buddy?”

A twitch of a finger betrays Face’s level of consciousness, and Murdock could cry. Has cried, repeatedly, as he has been forced to watch Face being beaten and cut, his body then washed in a parody of tenderness before being attacked anew.

Murdock begs and pleads, even screaming out as loudly as he can in the faint hope that someone might possibly hear, though any real hope of that faded after the first few visits. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that their captor is getting some kind of vile, twisted pleasure from all this – the fact that Face has been stripped to his briefs while Murdock is still dressed in the same filthy clothes he was wearing when they were captured makes him feel sick beyond belief. And Murdock still hasn’t been touched at all, apart from the times when the silent man in the black mask adjusts the chains or slips his gag back into place before starting in on Face anew. 

Face has had the worst of it, time and again. He is flat on his back now, sprawled across the low table and bound from chest to knees in tight chains. Their muscled captor lifts him effortlessly every time he visits, loosening the chains one at a time to manipulate those long limbs into a new position, and Murdock sees how Face is far too weak to struggle any longer. God knows he’d tried at first, and Murdock was so fiercely proud of his friend, especially now.

He wonders how much longer Face can hold on, though, and why the hell they still haven’t been found. Mostly, he wonders how much longer their still-silent jailer will bother trying to keep them alive. And, though he hates himself for even thinking about it when poor Face is suffering so horrifically, he wonders when it will be his turn.

* * *

He leaves.

The gaps between his visits to their basement prison seem to be growing longer, after at least two weeks of sheer hell, and Murdock both fears and hopes that their captor is growing bored of them. Over and over, he asks what the man wants from them, and when he will let them go. 

There is never any reply, only calm and measured actions from this madman who holds them captive. Those actions vary from visit to visit, from using a knife to carve increasingly intricate patterns into the damaged skin of Face’s chest or back, to painstakingly washing Face’s blood from his hands when he has finished.

There were fishing hooks, on one horrifically memorable visit, and even a hammer and nails once. Murdock had gagged repeatedly at the mimicry of a crucifixion.

“Leave him alone,” Murdock begs, at the start of every visit, before he is gagged once more. “Please, leave him alone. Use me instead.”

Face hasn’t shown any signs of waking in between the last two visits, and their silent torturer just stands and watches him with a wickedly sharp blade in his hand, before he turns and leaves. Murdock doesn’t understand why the man isn’t turning on him now Face seems beyond any response. Face has been targeted from the beginning – what Murdock can’t understand is if Face is the one being punished here, or if he himself is the one being made to suffer by watching Face go through hell and being unable to help. 

It’s a sign, perhaps, meant either for Hannibal or for the team as a whole. Murdock can’t let himself believe that this hell is purely random. It can’t simply be that he and Face were in the wrong place at the wrong time. There has to be a reason, even if he can’t see it.

He can’t let himself think that Hannibal and BA might have been captured too. Can’t even contemplate the idea that they might be going through something similar, somewhere close by.

Now, even in the dim light of the basement, Murdock sees the flush of fever on Face’s pale cheeks, and the helpless tremor in his bandaged and bleeding limbs. There is a new and distinctive scent in the air, too; the odour of infected wounds. Along with blood loss, most certainly, and dehydration – how much more can Face possibly take?

Their time is running out rapidly.

“Hold on, Face,” he whispers hoarsely into their prison, hoping some part of the other man can still hear him, somewhere in his haze of misery and pain. It was a strange kind of relief when Face finally lost his voice. Surely Murdock has no right to ask Face to keep fighting to stay alive, after however many days or weeks they have actually been kept here, but still – “Please, don’t leave me here all alone. Please stay with me a bit longer.”

He knows it is selfish of him to ask that. Surely, Face has suffered enough now – his screams of agony from countless previous visits still echo in Murdock’s ears, even now. 

But as terrified as he is of being left alone at their captor’s dubious mercy, he is far more terrified at the thought of Face dying here, without even the comfort of Murdock’s touch to ease his passing.

* * *

He leaves.

And this time, Murdock knows with sickening certainty that the next visit will be the last, for Face at least. This time, before he left, the man who has help them captive in sinister silence for so long drew his knife carefully across Face’s pale throat, leaving a thin red line visible. 

For the very first time in all these endless, countless visits, he looked Murdock directly in the eye and shook his head once. He’d held Murdock’s gaze for a long moment, his black eyes emotionless behind that black mask, before leaving. His message was clear; next time.

Murdock also knows, deep in his heart, that no one is coming to rescue them now. Any hope he might have once had has faded steadily as he’s been forced to watch Face bleed, and he has given up trying to fight the creeping despair that is finally overwhelming him. 

He hates that he isn’t stronger. He hates that he can’t break free from the chains holding him locked in place, and he bitterly hates the fact that he hasn’t been able to save Face. What the hell use has he been, this entire miserable time? What comfort has he been to the man who is without a doubt the best friend he’s ever had?

They’ll never see Hannibal or BA again. It will destroy Hannibal, most likely, never knowing what happened to the two of them. BA will be devastated too, Murdock hopes, though he’ll show it in different ways. Murdock prays they are able to move on somehow. If he and Face are never found, he prays the other half of their team can mourn and then let them go, rather than spending the rest of their lives searching for answers.

And their bodies might well never be found, unless the man who has held them all this time slips up or develops some sense of remorse, leading the authorities to this hellish basement. 

Murdock doesn’t believe in an afterlife, never has. But Face does, and Murdock tries not to dwell on the faint hope that the two of them might be reunited there, free of pain and finally at peace. His Granny and his Grandpa too, and his cousins, his Mom even, and all the friends they’ve both lost along the way.

Murdock doesn’t even know if Face is still alive. He doubts it, and his heart is breaking. They have been left chained on opposite sides of the room, both of them on the floor, and from this angle as well as from the way Face is slumped facing away from him, he doesn’t think the other man is breathing.

With no water for several visits now, Murdock knows he has no more than a few days before dehydration kills him too. If, by some miracle, Face is still clinging to life, it will surely be quicker than that for him. He can’t help feeling that will be nothing less than a blessing after such suffering. They have both lost so much weight during their weeks of captivity, and Face is little more than skin and bones now, that skin a deathly grey beneath his bandages.

“I’m so sorry,” he croaks to the motionless body of his best friend, his throat dry and his voice nearly gone. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him, Face. I’m sorry I couldn’t break out of these chains to help you. I’m so sorry he hurt you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.”

Murdock isn’t crying, strangely enough. He has no more tears left. His entire body is numb, especially his poor hands as he strains weakly against the chains one more time. They don’t give even a fraction.

If he’d been stronger, he might have saved Face. If someone else had been captured along with Face, BA perhaps, they might have been able to break out of these restraints and get Face to safety. The very thought makes his throat close up with near-overwhelming guilt, and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly for just a moment.

He can already feel his remaining strength slipping away. His mind, too, will crack soon, especially if Face is really gone. His hold on reality has always been more than a little tenuous. Perhaps he’s already cracked. Without the need to stay strong for the other man, he has no reason to hold on any longer, and Murdock closes his eyes, ready to embrace the beckoning darkness and escape from this horror.

And then, as if in a dream, there come the sound of footsteps and voices from outside this basement which has threatened to become their tomb. A gunshot, and the sound of banging, and shouts, both angry and desperate.

Wishful thinking, perhaps, or simply the start of the inevitable and welcome madness.

Or rescue.

“We’re here,” Murdock whispers, forcing his eyes back open yet unable to summon a shout of his own. “Please. We’re here. Find us.”

And as a weak moan slips from Face’s blue-tinged lips, Murdock is surprised to find he still has some hope left after all.

**Author's Note:**

> With enormous thanks to Owlbsurfinbird, who read and offered advice on a very early draft of this back in 2015 when it was a Lewis story for the Frightfest - it's changed dramatically since then, but I hope for the better thanks to your suggestions.


End file.
